Strawberries and Champagne
by winter machine
Summary: Maybe it doesn't matter what they see because someone looking at her without looking away is like stumbling into the cool of an air-conditioned room when you're sticky with sweat and humidity and choking hot air. Amelia, Charlotte, Cooper. AU post-finale.


**A/N: **_Based on a prompt. Amelia/Charlotte/Cooper: strawberries, champagne and angst. This is A/U in that it would never happen on the show and non-A/U in that it takes place in the present timeline. Features AbouToBackslide!Amelia - one of my favorites. I'm going to keep posting these because I've been very pleased to see that I'm not the only one who loves angst-ridden Amelia as much as I do. As the prompt would suggest, the story c__ontains adult situations. _

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><p><strong>Strawberries and Champagne<strong>

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><p>She says the first thing that comes into her head:<p>

(because that's never gotten her into trouble)

"You smell like strawberries."

Charlotte sighs; they're strapped next to each other in the backseat, Amelia slumped over inches away from a mouthful of blond hair. Cooper's in front, maneuvering the traffic in his undersized car.

"Dessert. We are - _were _- celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" Amelia struggles to sit up straighter, fails. She didn't do anything. Called Charlotte before she could do anything. She didn't know they'd come together to pick her up.

"An anniversary. A personal one," she adds when Amelia starts to ask the inevitable followup.

Of course they were. She's Amy after all - _you can change your name but you'll never change what you've done,_ that's what her sister shouted once at her retreating back and she was probably right - so she's used to screwing up other people's celebrations. Other people's happiness.

She'd ordered vodka that night. Stared straight into the tumbler, swirled the clear liquid around a few times, smelled it. Dipped a finger in to feel it. Asked for a lemon wedge and squeezed that in too, winced and then smiled when it stung the small cuts where she'd bitten her cuticles. Ordered another one even though she hadn't drunk the first one.

And then she called.

Interrupted an anniversary, launched her pain onto someone else.

_It's always about you, Amy, making the rest of us miserable. _

She expected the looks she's used to: Past her. Through her. Scorn. Scorn wrapped in compassion, or pity.

But Charlotte is looking at her differently, like she knows what she's thinking, and maybe she does. Maybe she sees herself looking back. And Cooper is looking at her too, straight at her - they've parked and he's helping her walk up the driveway - looking at her like he knows her. Maybe he sees Charlotte looking back.

Maybe it doesn't matter what they see because someone looking at her without looking away is like stumbling into the cool of an air conditioned room when you're sticky with sweat and humidity and choking hot air. It's like she can breathe again, it's why the fine hairs on her arm stand up and she does the first thing that comes to mind

(because that's never gotten her into trouble)

and presses her lips to his.

"Amelia..." He pushes her off, gently, not before she feels the faint pressure of his mouth molding to hers. "Stop. You're not thinking straight."

"Thinking straight is overrated." She stumbles a little on the steps; he pulls her up and she melts against the nubbly cotton of his sweater.

"Amelia, enough," Charlotte says quietly, taking her other arm but that's when Amelia realizes it's not enough. It will never be enough until someone looks right at her, again, so she loops an arm through either of theirs and lets them guide her into Addison's - not _her_ - house.

**-x-**

This time she swallows the first thing that comes into her head and says instead: "I'm sorry."

It's simple, a classic.

She's in the doorway. Charlotte is leaning over a stack of papers, pen tapping against her bottom lip. She looks up.

"Are you?"

"Yes. I wasn't thinking straight." It's not true. "I didn't mean to, just - I'm sorry, okay?"

Charlotte sets down the pen, gets up, walks around the desk until she's very close. Close enough for Amelia to see the faint blue ink mark just under the curve of her lower lip.

"What do you want, Amelia?"

It's not a question people ask her. They might ask _What do you want from me? _or they might use it rhetorically: _What do you want to do, kill yourself with all this? Make your mother crazy? Get kicked out of school?_

But not this question. Not what she actually _wants_.

"I want you to look at me," she says - because it's true - and when Charlotte glances up at her expectantly she adds "Both of you."

Her words hang in the air for a moment and then Charlotte goes back to her desk, retrieves her pen and fists her chin in her other hand. Amelia stays by the door, uncertain, but feeling that it's some sort of test.

Sure enough, the pen scratches across the paper a few more times and then Charlotte says "Come over tonight."

She doesn't.

**-x-**

This time it's champagne. She orders the most expensive one on the list and when the bartender says it's bottle service only she has him pop the cork and treat as many as it will serve. "I'm celebrating," she tells him, though he didn't ask. "An anniversary. A personal one."

A fleck of the foamy spray hits her and she holds the glass for a minute just under her nose. It smells sharp and crisp. She watches the bubbles track briskly up the side of the flute. She molds her mouth around cool glass and tilts, carefully, until the moisture is just a whisper away from her lips.

Charlotte comes alone this time, when she calls.

"I didn't do anything," Amelia tells her, the still-full champagne flute resting next to her.

"I know."

She threads her fingers through hers as they walk to the car. Charlotte's fingers are delicate but strong, her hand no bigger than Amelia's. Amelia's used to feeling small; next to Charlotte, she feels exactly the right size.

"Where do you want to go?" Charlotte asks, key in the ignition and the engine turns over in time with Amelia's stomach. It's not a flutter, it's a roar.

"Take me home," she says.

Cooper's waiting at the door as if he knows they're coming. He raises an eyebrow at Charlotte, who is holding Amelia's hand once again. Tentatively, Amelia reaches for Cooper with her other hand.

Cooper speaks first. "We should-" he starts but Amelia shakes her head.

"I want it," she says, "but I don't want to talk about it."

They look at her, right at her, and both of them nod.

It feels more illicit somehow by its deliberate nature. No one is drunk. No one is rushed. Charlotte peels her jacket away with agonizing slowness; Cooper turns her gently toward him, thumbs skimming up her jawline, stroking at her hair. It's painfully tender. It actually hurts.

The bedroom is dim and slightly overheated, girly touches and practical dark wood fighting for control of the decor. Free of their clothing, Charlotte is tiny and limber, Cooper solid and warm. Amelia's tongue feels thick, her limbs heavy, like she's moving through water. It's warm in the room, too warm to stay upright. She melts into the sheets and they move over her in tandem, like they have a plan. Like they understand. Charlotte is briskly efficient, nimble little fingers, tongue flicking like a serpent. Cooper teases her too briefly, holds her too tightly. She straddles the substantial distance of his hips and the strain in her legs is too much. She's raw and unpracticed and hates the sounds from her mouth as she rocks numbly, tears behind her eyes. Charlotte holds her up, licks away the moisture on her cheeks. When he's finished, when his groan is something she'll forget like the fingerprint bruises at her hips, she slumps forward and four hands catch her.

"What do you want, Amelia?" Charlotte whispers. The same words sound different this time.

She doesn't answer.

"Amelia-" Cooper begins but she sees the way he looks over her shoulder at Charlotte and realizes that she was wrong: they were looking at each other the whole time.

"I should go," she says, "I'll call a cab," and neither of them stops her.

**-x-**

"I'm sorry." Charlotte's voice, from her doorway. Amelia's at her desk; she looks up at the interruption and Charlotte looks right through her.

"It doesn't matter," Amelia says. It's not true. "Don't worry about it."

She sees Cooper in the kitchen. He's pouring a glass of orange juice. She looks away before his eyes can burn past her. When she glances back he's flipping through a file, taking calm sips of juice. He doesn't look up when she leaves.

She walks straight into Addison in the hallway. "You got home late last night," she observes, and Amelia tips her head back to look her in the eye, feeling small. Young.

"I was out."

"Are you ... okay?" Addison lowers her voice as she asks the pointed question - she's nothing if not polite.

_Amy, of course we both want to see you, Derek's just - he's busy with work, but I'm still coming, okay? I'll be there. _

"Of course, Addie." She smiles around the slight crick in her neck, the faint headache that touches her eyes. "I'm fine."

That night, she orders scotch. Double shot, single malt.

It smells like the woods. It reminds her of things.

It burns going down.

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are love. Evenespecially with a story like this. This was originally a birthday present for an Amelia-loving friend, which explains why a prompt that sounds rather sensual and potentially fluffy ended up in the Land of Angst. Just as she likes it.**_


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